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Living on “Island Time”

Living in St. Thomas, Virgin Island without a car liberated me. No gasoline to buy, no flat tires. The only key in my pocket was for the apartment. Later, “Island Time” would eventually overtake me, a newly-fou

Living on “Island Time”

Living in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands without a car liberated me. No gasoline to buy, no flat tires. The only key in my pocket was for the apartment. Later, “Island Time” would eventually overtake me, a newly-found freedom.

But yielding to “Island Time” was a slowly-developing process beginning at the Atlanta airport when I was assigned a seat close to the front. No one beside me — until a cinnamon-skinned lass sat down to my right. Dreadlocks and all. Had I already been transported to the Caribbean?

“Excuse me,” she said as she inadvertently elbowed me, “but I can’t get this seat belt fastened.” The lilting cadence of the island dialect.

I could have been mistaken, but I thought I smelled mangoes, lime juice, a hint of rum. From liftoff to landing she placed her head on the pulldown tray and slept the soft sleep of contentment. No snores. Just blissful slumber. Is this what I was I headed for?

The St. Thomas airport had few walls, mostly open-air. After calling a cab (the driver’s name was Louis — odd to give me his name) I enjoyed a Red Stripe while wondering what had just overcome me, a mysterious calmness. From whence?

Another Red Stripe later, I still waited for Louis, and I’d lost sight of my seatmate. Had her cab already arrived? Nothing to do but watch cabs pick up their fares. I called Louis. “I’m wearing a blue shirt and tan shorts,” I told him. “I’ll be in front of the entrance.”

I sensed a certain rhythm to the flow of traffic, the coming and going of people — a measured pulse, not rehearsed, but natural. What was it?

Still no Louis. “Do you know Louis, a cab driver?” I asked an employee at the entrance.

“Yes, man. I know him a long time.”

“Is he ever late?”

A quizzical glance. “He will be here. For you.”

Is this the way things operate? Pretty inefficient. I was still living continental time, with precise schedules, people showing up when they should, rigid appointments. I sat on my luggage, the island breeze touching me.

Something about the drive and Louis’ welcoming demeanor surprisingly swept me to a time zone I knew nothing about, an existence where only my biorhythms ran the clock. I’d soon immerse myself into island time.

Louis dropped me off where I would live, where I’d write on my own schedule. No car, riding open air Safari buses, often taking me three hours just to buy groceries.

After leaving there, I wondered if I could continue living on island time. I couldn’t. But remembering Louis’ parting words — “Please come back, Mr. Pulley” — takes me out of continental time, just briefly. And sometimes that’s enough.